


I Could Crush You With My Voice

by TheSpiderThatKnowsThePlan



Series: Blindsided [1]
Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blindness, Blow Jobs, Declarations Of Love, Dom/sub Play, First Time, M/M, Making Love, Masturbation, Mutual Masturbation, Romance, Schmoop, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-24
Updated: 2019-11-24
Packaged: 2021-02-17 21:55:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 20,466
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21550387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSpiderThatKnowsThePlan/pseuds/TheSpiderThatKnowsThePlan
Summary: Pete was in an accident at an Arma show that left him totally blind. After four months of moping around his apartment, totally depressed, he opens his window and hears Patrick singing. It's love at first listen.Written for prompt “one’s blind and falls in love with the other’s voice AU” from Tumblr user authorkurikuri.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Series: Blindsided [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1553179
Comments: 23
Kudos: 40





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted under my old pseud, and I've had several requests to repost it, so here it is. <3

Pete Wentz lay awake in the early hours of the morning. He had almost no way of knowing what time it was, except that the infomercials had given way to the news. His eyes blinked, unseeing and uncaring of the fact that his apartment was lit only by the flickering glare of his television set.

Four months had passed since the incident at the Arma show—Pete's last performance as a member of the band. Near the end of the set, he'd thrown off his bass and leapt into the crowd, still screaming along with the rippling masses in the pit. What he wasn't counting on, was that one fan had made his way onstage and grabbed Pete's bass. The guy was drunk and on drugs, and he'd chucked the bass full-force out into the crowd. As odds would have it, it hit Pete directly in the temple.

The last thing Pete ever saw was a fan screaming in terror as he looked up past Pete's head. He'd never forgotten that expression. If he'd known what was coming, what the aftermath would be, he'd have worn a similar expression. Pete never could be sure if he was grateful that he didn't see it coming, or not. If he had seen, he could have blocked it, saved his sight and his career. Or, maybe it would only have been one split-second delay of the inevitable.

From the moment the doctors told Pete he wouldn't get his sight back, he'd sunk into a pretty bad depression, worse than any he'd ever experienced before. Worse than when he'd had writer's block for a month, worse than when Jeanae had cheated on him and he'd nearly downed all his pills in one fell swoop, convinced he was useless.

Now Pete knew he was useless. He couldn't see, so he couldn't write, not like before. His mother had gotten him speech-recognition software so he could still write and use his computer. He tried speaking his thoughts as they came, words that still batted around his head like hummingbirds on speed. It didn't seem the same when he tried to say them as when he could write them down in his beaten-up old notebooks. He felt ridiculous trying to verbalize it with his voice instead of pen and paper, or typing. Saying things out loud felt too unguarded, too much like being in a therapist's chair, except he was talking to himself. He did it anyway, though, because he got headaches, stomachaches, and eventually all-over body aches if he didn't.

As for playing, his bandmates had assured him he could relearn bass, play like Jeff Healey, but Pete wasn't sure he could face them, or the fans, when he was so... broken like this. He couldn't dance around the stage anymore, he couldn't crowd-surf, couldn't do any of the things he used to do, and he wasn't about to be the one pathetic dude sitting down at a fucking Arma Angelus show.

So, he'd retreated into himself, sitting alone in his apartment in the dark. Talk about broken.

******

After about an hour, Pete had had his fill of the news. It was all bad, fucking depressing. He'd had quite enough of depressing, thankyouverymuch, and daytime TV was almost as soul-sucking as the news. Listening to music was out—it was just a reminder of what he was missing, all the things he'd touched and tasted, and couldn't have anymore. So, he did something he hadn't done in a while, and opened a window.

The air outside was only slightly less pungent than the stale air inside Pete's apartment. Still, it was something. He sat on the floor beside the sill, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. He didn't really need to close them anymore, but it just felt nice to do it. He listened to the world outside—horns honking in the street below, the El rumbling on the tracks, the din of layer upon layer of conversations people were having as they walked to work, to school, to the coffee shop, to wherever their enviably fruitful lives took them.

And then, rising above it all, was what appeared to be the voice of an young man. It was clear and strong, but soft, dulcet even, lilting delicately over the strains of an acoustic guitar.

_'Cause I'm so sick of love songs_   
_So tired of tears_   
_So done with wishing that you were still here_   
_Said I'm so sick of love songs, so sad and slow_   
_So why can't I turn off the radio?_

Pete's eyes flew open as his head shot upright from the wall. He listened for a straight hour or more as the young man switched from Ne-Yo to Saves the Day to Montell Jordan to David Bowie without seeming even to bat an eye. This was, hands down, the most incredible voice he had ever heard. This voice was golden. Pete felt his heart race, his chest tingling and tightening. Every so often, he heard him speak softly, thanking people who were, ostensibly, paying for the privilege of hearing him sing.

It almost felt like stealing to be sitting like this, like a snake in the grass, listening for free without giving the guy anything in return.

Pete tried to imagine what the guy looked like. He dreamed up the opposite of himself—pale, with clear, bright, hopeful eyes, blond hair, and lush lips. His skin was clean, unmarked, and he had smiles for everyone. He was smart, talented—a music student, maybe, someone who had his whole life ahead of him, instead of his best times behind him.

When that voice started singing “Love Will Tear Us Apart” by Joy Division, the low register almost inaudible, Pete found himself craning his head closer to the window, trying to make sure he didn't miss a single note.

_Why is this bedroom so cold?_

Just the word _“bedroom”_ , emphasized ever-just-so, sounded filthy to him, even in that context. He thought if he were in a bedroom with this man, with this voice, it would be anything but cold. Pete imagined the singer's gaze, intense and fierce as he asked the question, and it sent a shock all through his body and straight into his already-too-tight jeans, making them even tighter.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd even felt present enough in his body to bother with arousal. It was so good, that familiar ache and throb, that need . Before he could even think, he was unzipping his jeans and slipping his hand down around his cock. It had been so long since he'd felt anything like this, since he'd even remotely wanted anything from anyone, least of all himself.

Pete heard the phrase _“get a taste in my mouth”_ and thought of his fantasy image, of all the ways he could put a taste in the mouth that went with that voice. He brushed his thumb over the head, like he'd done so many times before, relishing the slick already there with a loose grin as his other fingers tightened on the upstrokes. He was hot all over, tingling, thrusting up into his own fist and licking his own lips as he heard the singer below pop his lips on the word _“exposed”_.

Suddenly, Pete wanted this man exposed, naked on his bed while he ran his hands and mouth all over his body, testing every octave and every decibel level that voice could reach. He imagined young, smooth skin, those skilled hands in his hair, gripping just enough...

By the time the song was over, Pete was biting into his free hand as he came all over his fist.

Pete was decided. He had to meet the owner of this voice.

He stood up and made his way to the bathroom to clean himself up, and by the time he came back to the window, he couldn't hear singing anymore. He thought about calling out the window—he was only on the second floor—but then thought better of it because, really, what would he say?

_Hello? Singer dude? I wanna fuck your voice. Let's hang out!_

Pete chuckled at the idea, and then figured it was progress if there was something left in the world that could inspire him to feel desire and make jokes and laugh.

******

Pete didn't sleep much during the night, and when he did, he dreamed of that voice taunting him, wrapping around him like silk, caressing his body as though he were delicate, special.

He did almost miss the beginning of the news as he drowsed in and out of half-sleep. His circadian rhythms were getting totally fucked up from not having any light perception, which the doctors said could happen. “Non-24”, they'd called it. Pete already had enough problems with sleeping; he didn't need this too, which is why he left the TV on so much—to tell the time, keep the day and night straight in his mind.

He sat bolt upright in bed as the anchors began intoning about whatever sad, horrid events qualified as “top stories”. He showered, brushed his teeth, and put on clean clothes in record time. He wasn't sure what he was wearing matched at all, but then again, he'd never cared when he could see, so why start now?

He opened his window and sat on the floor, like he had yesterday, and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

After a good two hours of sitting, waiting for that voice, he gave up and flopped on his bed. He lay there all day, willing himself not to cry for the loss of that beautiful voice, the one thing that had made him feel in any way desirous, connected to something, alive. That voice gave him _hope_.

Pete eventually fell into a fitful sleep where he dreamed of chasing distant songs and laughter, but never really could catch up.


	2. Chapter 2

Pete awoke at some unknown hour. The TV was off so he had no compass. He felt adrift in his body, and the sensation was rapidly giving way to a mild panic. He found his phone, and did something he never thought he'd have to do again.

He dialed 0 and waited.

“Operator?” the friendly voice answered. Pete hadn't even been sure such a thing existed anymore. He never thought he'd be so relieved, but just hearing from another human was enough to remind him he wasn't alone in the universe for the moment. It wasn't the same as _that_ voice, the voice he wanted in his life so badly, but it would do right now.

“Um, may I have the correct time, please?” he croaked. “Uh, see, I'm blind, and...”

The operator cut him off in a firm but still friendly tone. “No problem at all, sir, one moment please.”

There was a click, and then a robotic message came over the line: “ _At the tone, the time will be Three. Fourteen. A.M. And. Twenty. Five. Seconds._ ” There was a beep, and Pete hung up with a sigh.

The Witching Hour.

Pete rolled onto his back, wondering if his golden boy was awake right now, maybe cramming for an exam, or partying, or fucking his... girlfriend? Boyfriend? Did he even like guys? That in and of itself was a longshot, he knew. Maybe this young talent was writing the next Fifth Symphony.

Creativity came at strange times.

_Speaking of which..._

Pete got up and stumbled to the living room. He found his laptop and sat on the couch, flipping the top open. When he heard the little beep meaning it was ready, he put on his headset and said softly, “Open 'Stuff'.” He silently counted to ten, then said, “Go to End.” Counted to three. “New Page.” Counted to three again, then began:

_Where is my boy tonight?_   
_I hope he is a gentleman._   
_Because I'm not one_   
_Maybe he won't find out_   
_But I know_   
_He was the last good thing about this part of town._   
_Does he need someone?_   
_I could be someone_   
_I could be an accident but I'm still trying_

He stopped talking suddenly and threw the headset off, putting the computer aside and curling into himself, hugging his knees.

“Who am I kidding?” he said out loud to the empty apartment. “A kid like that probably doesn't need anyone, least of all me.”

He turned on the TV and listened to an infomercial about deodorant for your ass, and dozed off wondering whether that made anyone more likely to put their face in there.

******

_...When can I see you again_   
_When can my heart beat again_   
_When can I see you again_   
_And when can I breathe once again_   
_And when can I see you again..._

Pete blinked his eyes a few times as he realized his golden voice was back, singing words plucked straight from his heart. He slowly lifted his head, his neck and back stiff from sleeping sitting up with his face on his knees. As he swallowed, he winced at the taste in his mouth, and went to brush his teeth. Then, he got himself a glass of water and sat by the window (which he had carelessly left open), and reveled in that voice, that amazing, enchanting voice.

He did a variety of cover songs. Some he'd done the other day, some Pete was hearing for the first time. His heart nearly stopped when the boy began to sing "Tom Traubert's Blues".

_Wasted, wounded_   
_It ain't what the moon did_   
_I got what I paid for now_   
_See ya tomorrow_   
_Hey Frank can I borrow_   
_A couple of bucks from you_   
_To go Waltzing Matilda_   
_Waltzing Matilda_   
_You go Waltzing Matilda with me..._

Pete gasped at the wounded, heartbreaking sound. He couldn't bear the idea of this boy ever being so sad. His voice was so melancholy, so beautifully agonizing... Before Pete knew it, his breath was hitching and he was crying into his knees.

 _I would do anything to keep him from ever feeling that way_ , he thought. _Anything._


	3. Chapter 3

Pete bit into a cold Pop-Tart and felt around in the cabinet for the canister of coffee. When he found it, he shook it and found it was empty.

 _Shit_.

He needed caffeination in the worst way, so he decided a trip to Starbucks was in order. He could pick up more for the house while he was there, too. He threw his hood up, found his sunglasses and cane, and made his way out and down the stairs. He miscounted the steps and tripped on the landing, but then he made it the rest of the way down to the lobby without further incident.

He felt pretty grateful that most things he needed were within walking distance, since he couldn't drive anymore, and no one was there to help him.

_Who would want a burden like me, anyway? I was hardly any good to anyone when I was sighted, let alone now._

He shook his head as if to try and rattle the thought out of his head, and subsequently lost his balance a moment, causing him to bump someone's shoulder.

“I'm sorry,” Pete said quietly. “I'm blind, so I uh, didn't see you."

His heart nearly stopped at the reply. “No problem, man. Don't worry about it.”

It was _him_. That golden voice. It made sense, Pete supposed, since the boy had just finished singing outside his window not long before. Still, he never figured on actually running into him. Like physically _touching_ him and being acknowledged by him. Pete's heart leapt into his chest and his mouth was suddenly so very dry. The Sahara was looking like a goddamned rain forest compared to Pete's throat right this moment.

Pete dropped his face toward the ground. “Uh, thanks,” he managed to choke out. He turned to leave, then hastily threw over his shoulder, “Nice singing, by the way.” Then he hurried off. He thought he heard the kid call something after him, but the whoosh of his blood in his ears was too loud as panic was setting in. He had to get away before he freaked the fuck out right in front of him.

The Starbucks was pretty crowded, but Pete felt relief wash over him immediately at the sound of hushed conversations and shuffling feet. He could blend in here, be anonymous and just stew in silence about how pathetic he was. He couldn't even introduce himself to the boy? Try to talk to him? Say something remotely appropriate and friendly? No. He panicked and ran like a fucking coward...

“Sir? May I take your order?” the barista's voice cut through his thoughts. He carefully put his cane in front of him and approached the counter.

“Yeah, sorry. Uh, can I have a venti caramel mocha latte with whole milk and extra sugar, please?” Pete asked in as low a voice as he could while still being heard over the crowd.

“Of course, sir,” came the reply. “Would you like anything to eat with that?” The Pop-Tart he ate was already sitting heavily in his stomach, so he shook his head. “Alrighty... your total is $4.96.”

Pete was pulling his wallet out of his pocket when he heard a familiar voice say, “Here, it's on me.”

His face lit up with recognition at the sound. It was his old drummer. “Andy?”

“Yeah, man. Hang on a sec.” Pete nodded and moved to the pick-up area while Andy ordered and paid for himself.

When Andy moved down he counter to join him, Pete immediately hugged him and said, “Thanks, dude. It's good to... uh, well, not 'see' you, but uh, it's good to hear your voice.” Pete felt a genuine smile on his face.

Andy patted his back and pulled away a little, saying, “It's good to see you, too, man. I was really worried about you. How've you been?”

Pete shrugged. “Eh, OK. Mostly sitting on my ass moping, trying to figure out my next move. What about you?”

“Well, not much, lately. I quit Arma a few weeks ago,” Andy said matter-of-factly, letting the sentence hang between them.

“What?!” Pete gasped. “Why?”

Andy audibly snickered and said, “Pete, do you even need to ask? They're assholes. They haven't called you or anything since the accident, and the new bassist they got is a total douche who keeps talking shit about you. All he says is how much better Arma's gonna be without 'that prissy little drama whore'.” Andy put extra mocking tone on that phrase since he knew Pete couldn't see finger quotes or the derision on his face. “I know I haven't been the best about calling either, and... I'm sorry about that, man. I guess I didn't know if you'd even want to hear from me, or anyone, you know? I thought I should give you space, but it wasn't because I didn't care, I swear.”

Pete felt Andy's hand on his wrist, and he smiled.

“I know, Andy,” Pete said gently. “It was a weird situation all around. I don't think I could have handled hearing from you right away, anyway. I mean, you know how I get. Obviously,” he added with a self-deprecating snort.

Andy laughed and said, “You know I do.” After a beat, he said, “Oh shit, I gotta go right now, but let's talk soon, OK? Now that we're both out of that mess, we should see about doing something else, another band.”

Pete felt the maniacal gleam in his eyes as he thought of him and Andy, and the owner of that voice. They'd be unstoppable. “Definitely, dude. I've got my... well, my ear on someone I think I wanna try and recruit.”

“Yeah, I got someone in mind, too, but we can talk about that another time.” Andy clapped Pete's shoulder. “Take care of yourself, Pete.” He nodded, and Andy was gone.

Pete sat in the Starbucks and drank his coffee, listening to the world hum around him. It was nice not to feel so removed from it, so alone, like he had been. Now that he had plans, however embryonic they were right now, and someone who wanted to help him, he felt hopeful.

******

When Pete got home, the first thing he did was grab his bass. He just held it in his lap, running his hands over the strings and frets, everything that once made sense and now just seemed like so much gibberish without his eyes to guide him. Could he really ever do this again? He felt his heart start to race, his throat tightening at the thought.

Thankfully, his phone rang, breaking the moment.

“Hello?”

“Peter?” came the strong female voice.

“Oh, hi, Mom,” Pete said, feeling the energy in his voice.

She noticed it too. “Well, don't you sound chipper? What's new?”

“Not much. I ran into Andy at Starbucks today. He left the band, and he wants to talk about starting up something new with me.”

“Oh, honey, that's terrific! I'm so glad. I know how much this means to you, and I didn't want you to lose it. I was worried that you were going to have to find something else to do for work.”

Pete sighed heavily and said, “Yeah, I was too, for a while there.”

“And are you still writing?” she prodded.

“Yeah, I am. Thank you for the, um, software.

_(and for paying for my rent and groceries and everything for four straight months)_

It's taken some getting used to, but it's been really helpful.

_(I can still get the words out onto another medium, out of my body, and not feel like I'm going to burst any second, so thanks Mom for helping your crazy, blind son not lose his mind and not wanna overdose again)_

Thanks.”

“Of course. Have you been to the doctor?” she asked.

From there Pete rattled off the events of his last appointment, complained about daytime TV, and listened to his mother fill him in on the latest goings-on at home. Most of the time, Pete spent these phone calls wishing he were there with her, so he could just fling himself into her arms and let her comfort and protect him as though he were four, instead of twenty-four. He'd felt he had to make some vague attempt at being an adult, though, at being on his own, even if she was still paying for everything. He couldn't impose any more on her than he already was. This time, though, he was actually listening as she told him about how Andrew had made the Dean's List and Hilary had a new boyfriend. He was actually glad they were doing well, not biting the inside of his cheek to keep from spewing venom out of envy.

“That's so awesome, Mom. I'm glad things are going well over there.”

She chuckled and said, “Well, my, my, Pete. You really are in a good mood.” There was something sly in her tone.

He hummed sheepishly and said, “Yeah, I guess I am.”

“Well, remind me to send Andy Hurley a fruit basket for cheering my son up. Listen sweetie, I have to run to the grocery store, but I'll call you soon, OK? I love you.”

Pete felt his eyes welling up with gratitude for this incredible woman, sudden and implacable, and he said, “OK, Mom. I love you, too. Thank you. Y'know, for everything.”

“Of course, sweetie. Be good.” She hung up, and Pete clutched the phone to his chest, feeling for the first time in a while like he really still could make his mom proud of him, give her a return on the investment she'd made in him.

He needed to flesh things out with Andy, for sure, find out who he knew that could help them. But he needed that voice, too. That golden boy, he felt with a strange clarity, was the key to moving this along, to giving his words _life_.


	4. Chapter 4

Everything was dark. Pete tried to move his arms, but they were restrained by... something. He was vaguely aware of being naked, but more prominently aware that he was hard. So hard it hurt. He writhed against the restraints, wishing he could free one, or be on his stomach, anything so he could find some friction. His hips thrust up and out helplessly. Then, there was that voice, singing in a tune that greatly resembled the teasing singsong of a playground taunt:

_Where is your boy tonight?_   
_I hope he is a gentleman_   
_Maybe he won't find out what I know..._

The voice was like a touch, a physical force that rocked through Pete's entire body, hot and electric, and before he knew it, without any contact at all, he came all over himself with a broken sob.

“Please, tell me who you are,” he panted.

“You're gonna have to find out,” the voice beckoned.

Pete awoke with a start, warm and sticky, all his nerves on fire. The TV was on, but he couldn't tell what the program was right away. The whooshing in his ears slowly receded, and he was able to resolve the sound as a Coldplay song. Then he remembered he'd left some music-only channel on, welcoming it into his home for the first time since the accident.

But he had no idea what time it was.

As he shucked his underwear off, he strained to listen out his window. He never even closed it anymore when he was home, hoping to catch a snippet of that voice. Nothing. He got dressed and changed his sheets, still hoping his golden boy would show up. He went through the task of dialing the operator again, and was informed the time was _Ten. Twenty. Eight. A.M. And. Ten. Seconds_. Still, the din outside seemed like considerably more than it would normally be at this hour.

_It's Saturday. Right._

Unlikely that the kid would be out busking without the rush hour commute to hear him and contribute.

Nonetheless, Pete decided had to find this kid. Maybe if he asked around the neighborhood, someone would know his name.

He started in Starbucks. While he waited for his latte, he asked one of the baristas, “Hey, excuse me?”

“Yes sir?” came the reply of a young woman.

“I was wondering whether you might know of a, well, I guess he's a young guy, the one who's been busking on this street with an acoustic guitar the last few days?”

“Oh, no, sir, I'm sorry, I only work Saturdays, and I haven't seen anyone.”

Pete's heart sank a little. “Oh, OK, thank you.” He took his cup and started to leave, intent on trying somewhere else.

“Excuse me, sir?” a voice called. Another female, but older sounding. Deeper, a little more self-assured.

Pete stopped and said, “Sorry, I can't see. Did you mean me?”

Footsteps came closer and a hand gently rested on his arm. “Yes, I meant you. May I?” she said softly. He nodded, and she led him out of the pick-up area and to a table, where she sat across from him.

“Uh, my name's Lucy,” she said.

“Pete,” he said shyly, and she shook his hand.

“Listen, I couldn't help overhearing, and I think I know the gentleman you're looking for. Well, he looks more like a boy, really. Can't be more than eighteen. I've seen him here Mondays and Wednesdays the last couple of weeks, but yesterday was the first time he was here on a Friday. Phenomenal voice.” Pete nodded furiously. Her wording was causing his lyrics to echo in his mind like they'd sounded in his dream. “He doesn't put anything out with his name on it, just his guitar case for money.”

“So, in theory, he'll be back for Monday morning rush hour?”

There was a pause, and then she said, “One could assume.”

He took both Lucy's hands in his and said, “Thank you, Lucy. You don't know how much that helps me.”

“Well, I do know who you are, Mr. Wentz, and if you've got in mind what I think you do, that boy is gonna be the one needing to thank me.” She took one hand out of Pete's, put it over his, and squeezed. “Good luck,” she said.

“Thank you, uh, again,” he said. After a thought, “If there's ever anything I can do for you...”

A card was pressed into his hand. “Just hang onto this so you can save me a ticket to your first show.” There was a clear smile in her voice. He smiled and nodded, then he left.

It was such a beautiful warm day, and the sun felt so good on his face, Pete actually hopped a bus to Diversey Harbor and walked around. He listened to the chatter of passersby, smelled the lake, and thought of all the incredible things he was going to do once he had his Boy with the Golden Voice.

Pete felt like doors were opening for him, instead of closing. Life was in front of him again, sprawling and open-ended.


	5. Chapter 5

Pete got home in the late afternoon and decided to go out. Like, go out, go out. Order a drink, sit and listen to a band, get the feeling back. Elbo Room was not far from him, and they always had good indie acts.

He indulged in a long, hot, luxurious shower, actually trying to concentrate on the feel of the water on his skin, the smell of his soap, the feel of his own fingers massaging his scalp. It was so different, being present in the moment instead of either lost in his own despair or so restless that the next second couldn't come fast enough. He felt just the lowest, warm little twinge of arousal in his belly, but instead of rushing to jerk off and take care of it, he decided to let it be. It was nice just to feel it, feel something that sparked of desire and hunger for something.

_Hunger._

Pete's stomach growled, which drove home the realization that he hadn't eaten yet today. He'd been so lost in his plans, so eager to find the Boy ( _his_ Boy, Pete thought of him as his already) so he could introduce him to Andy and they could start over, do something new.

_Take over the world._

It all seemed so clear, like it was the only thing Pete needed, but he also had a bad habit of neglecting his health in favor of the music, or a beer, or a fuck, whatever sounded like a good idea at the time. He needed to be better about that.

What went better with a beer and some music than pizza? He could even put vegetables on it ( _that_ _counts, right, Mom?_ ). As he dried himself off, Pete was already dreaming of gooey cheese and sausage ( _no double-entendres, there, right? he snickered to himself_ ). And, OK, some peppers and onions, too. Why not?

He threw on some jeans, a t-shirt, and a hoodie, and a pair of Chucks, then grabbed his cane and wallet and headed out. He stopped at Gino's and made himself sit down to eat, letting the food sit in his mouth as he chewed and swallowed carefully. Maybe it was his imagination, but it seemed like it tasted better than Pete remembered. Could have been his renewed sense of purpose, or his other senses strengthening to compensate for the lack of sight, or just the fact that he hadn't had pizza in months. Who knew? He smiled and enjoyed it.

The night air smelled sweet, laden with something vaguely musky-yet-floral, like trees in heat, or something. It smelled like all those evenings playing soccer until the streetlights came on, and sharing orange soda with his friends. It made Pete feel young again.

When he got to Elbo Room, he made his way to the bar (with help) and ordered a beer. As he heard the familiar soft thud of the glass being set in front of him, he thanked the bartender and took a sip. Like the pizza, it tasted better than he remembered. Still, there was something familiar about it, foamy and comforting.

Just as he was putting his glass down, another familiarity shot straight into his chest.

A microphone turned on, and a throat cleared into it. Pete's heart suddenly ached for the stage, the music...

“Um, good evening, everyone.”

Just as quickly, the homesick ache was gone and another ache settled in, an old one he remembered from some ancient chapter of his old life, but made new again in this moment. This was the pull of _want_. It was that voice, the one from his window, the one that was now haunting his dreams. He'd know it anywhere. His Golden Boy.

“Um, uh,” he began, and Pete smiled as he could practically see a gorgeous young artist, shy and unaware of his own beauty, shifting in his seat in front of everyone, guitar perched precariously on his knee. “My name is Patrick Stump, and uh, I'm gonna play a few songs for you. I hope you like them.”

Pete was grateful he was already sitting, or the sound of this young man's voice saying his own name would have bowled him over. He leaned his chin on his palm sighing dreamily. _Patrick Stump_ , his mind cooed. _Patrick Stump, Patrick Stump, PatrickPatrickPatrick..._

Patrick strummed a couple of quick chords, then began plucking delicately over just a few notes as he began softly:

_This city is my city, and I love it, yeah I love it_   
_I was born and raised here, I got it made here_   
_And if I have my way I'm gonna stay..._

Pete wasn't sure if he was about to cry or come or both. The way Patrick soared into such an ethereal tone, then effortlessly dropped right back down to a strong, soulful full voice almost made Pete lose his breath entirely. All of a sudden, he flattened his hands on the bar to steady himself like he might float away.

It all suddenly made sense. The tastes, the smells... everything was better with this voice in his world. Pete _felt_ better.

He listened to Patrick's set with rapt attention. He played mostly covers, some of which Pete had heard, but there were also some original songs. And they were really good. The crowd clapped and whooped enthusiastically as Patrick thanked everyone and made his way down from the stage. It made Pete strangely proud, in a way he would never be able to explain to anyone, to know that everyone was appreciating this voice, this guy, this fucking angel who had apparently all but saved Pete's life without even trying.

Pete desperately wanted to know what this mad genius would do with his words, the ones he couldn't write down anymore, the ones that rattled his ribcage and pounded in his head like wild animals. He wanted someone to take those parasites and make them butterflies. He had no idea why, or how, but he knew deep down that Patrick could do it. He felt it in his bones.

But how on Earth could he bring himself to even talk to this guy? What would he say? What could he come up with that wouldn't sound completely creepy and stalkerish? How...

“Um, excuse me? I'm sorry to bother you, but... aren't you Pete Wentz?”

Pete's blood seemed to simultaneously freeze and boil all at once. That voice. Patrick was _here_ , right next to him, fucking talking to him. He knew Pete's motherfucking _name_.

He tried to keep his breathing as steady as possible as he looked in the general direction of the voice, to his right, and said, “Uh, yeah, I am. Are you  
Patrick?”

Patrick laughed and said, “Yeah, I am, actually. You've got a good ear. Anyway, I wanted to tell you, uh I'm a big fan of Arma, um, o-of yours, actually, and um, I don't know if this is the right thing to say, but um... I'm um, I-I-I'm sorry for what happened to you.”

Pete felt hot tears stinging his eyes, and he knew his mouth was hanging open dumbly.

He heard Patrick clear his throat and shuffle his feet on the floor. “Look, man, I'm sorry I said that, I didn't mean to upset you. I'll, uh, I'll go...”

“No!” Pete begged as he shot out of his seat, reaching for Patrick. He took a breath, passed a hand through his hair, and quietly said, “Uh, I mean, no, do-don't go, man. It's cool. Um, sit down. I'd, uh, I'd like it if you joined me.”

Pete heard the slow scrape of a chair and the light creaking sound of Patrick sitting down, and then Pete sat back down. “Sorry, uh, I just wasn't expecting you to notice me. Um, truth be told, I never expect anyone to notice me anymore. I, uh, I guess it's like when you're a little kid and you hide and cover your eyes because, like, you think if you can't see then you can't, like, be seen, or something...” Pete was seriously babbling. “Um, sorry, it's uh, it's been a while since I actually even talked to anyone besides my mom. And doctors, of course. Uh, and my drummer, more recently.”

"Andy?" Patrick asked. Pete nodded. "Whoa, he's rad." Pete nodded again. _Rad._ This kid couldn't possibly be any more adorable. "So, uh, are you gonna, like, work with him again? With Arma?"

"Nah. Andy left after they replaced me." Don't offer him anything yet. Be cool. “Anyway, how long have you been playing?” Pete asked. _Nice segue. Very smooth,_ he thought sarcastically.

“A few years,” Patrick said. “I'm, uh, I'm a drummer first and foremost, but I also I play bass and piano, some trumpet and trombone. And obviously, guitar.”

“Dude, you're amazing.” The words were out of Pete's mouth before he could stop himself. “I can't believe you're actually a fan of mine. I mean, I was trying to find some cool way of saying I'm a fan of _yours_. I've been in the scene for years and I've never come across talent like yours before. How old are you? I mean, if-if you don't mind me asking?” Pete assured himself this was a totally innocent question, all business, not at all trying to determine if the kid was of legal age to be fucked through a mattress.

Patrick chuckled nervously and said, “Thanks, man. Uh, I don't mind. I'm nineteen.”

“Nineteen? That's it? I mean, I thought you might be young, but... whoa.” Pete suddenly felt like a dirty old man. Patrick was five years younger than himself, practically a kid, for Chrissakes.

Granted, not as young as Jeanae, but still, if he'd learned anything from that train wreck, he should be backing away slowly. “Anyway, I, uh, I heard you singing earlier this week, too. On the street, I guess? It was...” Pete paused, then sighed and said, “It was really fucking beautiful.”

“Oh right,” Patrick said in a way that indicated a light bulb turning on in his head. “You bumped into me yesterday when I was packing up.” Pete thought it was adorable how he completely glossed over the compliment Pete had paid him. _Humble. I like that. And I kind of hate that._

“Yeah, uh, that was me. I was in my apartment, um, on the second floor above where you were singing. I heard you the last two times you were there. I kinda spend a lot of time at home these days, trying to get my head right, since the accident, you know.”

Patrick nodded, then realized Pete couldn't actually see him and said, “Yeah, I get that. It must be rough. I tried to talk to you yesterday, but you were, uh... in a hurry, I guess?”

“Yeah, it has been rough for me. But three days ago, I, uh, I got tired of listening to the news and stuff, so I opened my window and there you were. I sat there the whole time, just listening to you.” _Yeah, just listening, that's all._ Pete tried to shut that thought down as quickly as he could. “I wanted to talk to you yesterday, but I was, just, um, not ready, or something? Not in the right headspace, I don't know... There's a lot I've wanted to say to you. I hope this doesn't sound weird, but everything was looking kinda bleak for me, and uh, listening to you actually made me wanna, like, do stuff again. Like...

_(jerk off)_

actually leave my apartment, and eat something besides cereal from the box

_(like maybe you, would that be OK?)_

and be around people. I actually was ready to give up on music entirely until I heard what you can do. It... well, it made me want to be in the world again.” Pete felt his eyes welling up again, and he tried to press it back with his thumb and forefinger.

Then... there was a hand on his free one on the bar. The touch felt warm and soothing, but _tinglyexciting-oh-my-God_ all at the same time. Pete took a deep breath. “Sorry, you probably figured out I'm kind of... um, well, I don't have much of a brain-to-mouth filter.”

Patrick sighed. “That's the most incredible thing anyone's ever said to me, Pete.” His voice was soft, awed. Pete nearly keeled over at the sound. “And yeah, I do listen to your music, so I did kinda figure that,” he added with a laugh. “Um, by any chance, do you still, um, write? Your lyrics are killer.”

Pete sighed now, but the sound was a little tired, exasperated. “I, uh, I can't really write like I used to.”

“That sucks, man,” Patrick sympathized with a rub of Pete's hand. Pete was really trying very hard not to be turned on that this virtual stranger, this _kid_ , was touching him, but it was becoming a losing battle.

“I mean, uh, I still um, kind of... I say them instead, and use voice-recognition software to write it for me, since I can't really write them down. It feels weird, a little stupid even, but if I don't get them out, they hurt. Like, physically, so that was all I could do.”

“I feel the same way, but, with the music part. Lyrics aren't really my forte. I feel like if I don't grab an instrument and compose whatever it is I've got in me, I'm gonna, like, explode any moment, or something.” He chuckled nervously, then took a deep breath and said, “Um, I'd love to see what you've got sometime, if, um, if you wanted.”

Pete wanted that. Desperately, more than he even wanted to breathe. “Uh, oh, well, uh, it's probably not any good. I don't know if it works the same when I'm just babbling nonsense instead of, well, writing nonsense on paper. I don't know why it feels weird, not as good, but it does.”

“Well, it's new, for one thing, so that's gotta be weird. Plus, I mean, I guess it's the same as why it feels easier to play an instrument than sing, for me. I mean, your voice is more of a part of you, you know? It's not something you can crumple up and throw away if it's no good. Something you say, something you use your voice to put out there feels more... naked, in a way, more personal.”

Patrick paused then, letting this hang between them.

Pete's mouth hung open in awe. “Yeah, that's exactly it. I could hide my notebooks if I didn't want anyone to see them. But my voice... I always wondered whether my neighbors could hear me trying to record my words and stuff, what they must think of me... you're right. It's more personal, vulnerable, or something.” After a pause, Pete went on, “I'd let you see it, if you promised not to laugh."

“Cross my heart,” Patrick said solemnly.

“Uh, well, um, I hope it's not too sudden, but um, as you undoubtedly know now, I live right around the corner if you... if you uh...” Pete trailed off, lowering his face.

Patrick's voice brightened noticeably. “Yeah! Yeah, definitely! Wow, this is amazing.” He lowered his voice conspiratorially and leaned in close to Pete. “I can't believe I'm gonna be the first to see Pete Wentz's new material.” Pete tried to conceal the shiver he felt coursing through him, but he felt he probably didn't do a very good job, because he was pretty sure heard a mischievous little snicker from the younger man.


	6. Chapter 6

Pete closed the door to his apartment behind Patrick and said, “Oh, uh, I have no idea if the place is clean or not, so I'm sorry if it isn't.”

“It's fine,” Patrick said amiably. “You should see my dorm room.”

_Music student! I KNEW IT! His mind screamed._

Pete waved an arm around the general direction of the couch and said, “Have a seat. I'll be right back.” He walked off to his bedroom to get his laptop, trying to look as casual as he could. His mind raced though, with a jumble of

_OhMyGodIcan'tbelievethisawesomedudewiththegorgeousvoiceishereinmyapartment_   
_OhMyGodamInutslettinghimseemywords_   
_OhmyGodOhmyGod_   
_OH_   
_MY_   
_GOD_

He found the laptop and came back to the living room, feeling for the back of the couch. He caught the arm after stubbing the side with his foot and stumbling. There was a quick shuffle and suddenly Patrick was in front of him, catching him, and gently taking the laptop from his hands. Pete couldn't help noticing he smelled fucking incredible, like vanilla and sugar. He felt his eyes droop closed as he breathed through his nose, taking the scent, the moment in.

Patrick helped Pete sit down next to him, and handed the laptop over. Pete flipped it open and listened for the little beep that meant it was ready. “Open 'Stuff',” he said to the device, feeling his face flushing. He waited a few seconds, then handed the device over. “Uh, I hope it's all spelled right or whatever. It's going on how I talk.”

There was a long moment of silence as Patrick was presumably reading. Then, softly, he began to hum. And drum his fingers.

Pete heard the keyboard clacking and panicked. “What are you doing?” he asked frantically, putting his hands out. “Please don't erase it. I mean, it's not much, but... it's mine."

Patrick put a hand over one of Pete's and said, “Don't worry. I would never erase your work, and don't sell yourself short. This is great. I'm just adding something below it... making a couple of adjustments... aaaaaand there. What do you think of this?” He began to sing:

_A downward spiral, just a pirouette_   
_Getting worse until there's nothing left_   
_What good comes of something_   
_When I'm just the ghost of nothing, nothing_   
_I'm just the man on the balcony_   
_Singing 'nobody will ever remember me'_   
_Rejoice, rejoice_   
_And fall to your knees_

Pete's mouth fell open for what felt like the millionth time that evening. “Oh wow,” he breathed, “Patrick, that's fucking amazing. Fuck whatever I wrote! How did you do that?”

Patrick cleared his throat and said, “Well, um, I don't know, it um, just kind of came to me. Uh, as soon as I saw what you'd written, it just seemed to fall naturally into place. Um, it's almost... like I didn't even really do it. To me, it feels like you did, more than me.”

“Wow,” Pete said again. “Patrick... you're... oh, my God...”

There was a long pause where Pete thought he actually heard Patrick's throat click as he swallowed hard.

Pete leaned forward a little with his hands out. “Um, can I... can I try something? I've uh, never done it before, but...”

Seeming to know what Pete was asking, Patrick took both of Pete's hands in his and said, “Uh, sure. Give it a shot.” Pete took a breath and nodded, and then Patrick brought Pete's hands to his face. It was strange at first, just a jumble of lumps, but Pete lightened his touch, using just his fingertips, and he heard Patrick sigh. He walked his fingers up, up, until he felt Patrick's hairline. There was something there—a trucker cap, from the feel of it.

Pete took hold of the bill and said, “Can I?”

Patrick's breath took on a tremor. “Um, I don't usually... uh,... um, y-yeah, I guess so.” Very gingerly, Pete pulled the cap off and lowered it to Patrick's lap, then found his way back to the top of Patrick's head. The hair was fine, and thinning at the crown. Pete ran his fingers down to the back of Patrick's neck, where the ends of his hair hit loosely, seeming to jut out in all directions. He then moved over Patrick's ears to his temples, drawing another small sigh from him. Patrick closed his eyes as Pete trailed his fingers down, over his nose, down to his mouth. Pete ran a thumb over his lips, then licked his own instinctively. Patrick's mouth was full and soft, just like Pete had imagined. When he moved his hands outward over Patrick's cheeks, he felt fuzzy sideburns. He put his fingers into them and trailed his thumbs over Patrick's cheekbones, trying to  
make a picture out of what his hands were feeling.

“What color is your hair?” Pete asked softly, almost shyly.

“Ummm,” Patrick hummed, pondering. “Uh, like blondish-reddish kinda?”

“Mhm,” Pete hummed back, nodding. “And your eyes?”

“Kinda bluish-green. Depends on what I'm wearing.”

Pete nodded again. “Is your skin very pale?” He hadn't meant the question to sound so presumptuous, but with light hair and eyes, and skin that soft, it just seemed like it had to be. Like Patrick had been plucked right from his mind.

Patrick laughed and said, “Yeah, I'm just this side of, like, clear. The sun and I are definitely not friends.”

“You're absolutely beautiful, Patrick.” As Pete said this, Patrick gasped to see that Pete's eyes had somehow met his own. “You're just like I dreamed you'd be.”

Pete drew a sharp breath as Patrick grasped one of Pete's hands, still on his face.

“You dreamed about me?” he said, his voice full of surprise.

Pete nodded. “Yeah, when I heard you sing from my window. You don't even know, Patrick. It was... your voice is the first good thing to happen to me since I went blind.”

There was a long pause, and then...

“Pete, um, can I try something?” Patrick asked, his voice low and husky, like when he'd been singing Joy Division. Pete nodded, and Patrick brought one of his hands to Pete's jaw. As he felt Patrick shifting closer to him, Pete took in the feeling of the soft fingers cradling his face.

And then, Oh, God, Patrick's mouth was on his.

It was gentle, tentative, and Pete pressed back into it just so, wanting to show Patrick that he wanted this, but maybe without showing him exactly how much. He didn't want to overwhelm the poor boy.

But when Patrick parted his lips and darted his tongue against Pete's mouth, all of Pete's restraint went out the window. He tilted his head, opening his mouth and sealing it properly against Patrick's. Pete slipped a hand to the back of the boy's neck, pressing him closer, closer. Pete hadn't kissed anyone in months, since before the accident, and he's pretty sure that even when he did, it never felt even remotely this good. Pete felt like he was probably a little sloppy and out of practice, but Patrick's mouth was perfect—warm, soft, and sweet, but firm and solid. It felt like Patrick was everything Pete himself wasn't, everything he needed so badly. It felt like a puzzle piece fitting into place.

Patrick broke the kiss and pulled back a bit, but Pete could still feel his breath, close against his chin.

Now it was Patrick's turn to say, “Wow.”

Pete let his eyes droop shut and nodded, almost knocking his forehead against Patrick's. “Yeah,” he gasped. “That was, by far, the best kiss I've ever had.”

“Me, too,” Patrick whispered. “You're really... you're really amazing, Pete. To be perfectly honest, you're different than I thought you'd be. Not that I didn't think you'd be really cool and talented, but I didn't think you'd be so... uh... sweet. I mean, you seem so, like, rough-and-tough, you know?”

Pete threw his head back and laughed right out loud at that. “Oh, man, Patrick, I am, like, the opposite of tough. Did you even listen to the words I wrote for Arma?”

“OK, fair point. But, I mean, compared to someone like me, you're so... raw, and open, and... so willing to just bare yourself for everyone to see... you're just so wild. So free.”

Pete put a hand on Patrick's knee. “Raw and open also describes a wound, baby. And wild and free just means needy and alone. I've always needed people to see me, to notice me and even just act like they liked me for a few minutes. I never even gave a shit if it was real or not.”

“And now?” Patrick asked, his tone hopeful.

Pete took a big breath and sighed it out. “Patrick, I tried to shut it all off for months after the accident. All that need, that exhibitionism, that rawness. I thought if I couldn't be _that_ Pete Wentz, the guy you talk about, then what would be the fucking point of even living? What do I contribute to the world, if not that? And then you know what happened? I heard you sing. I heard hope, I heard beauty, and I heard the sound of a life in front of us instead of behind.”

“Really? You mean that?” Patrick's voice had gone low again, almost of its own accord.

Pete shivered, and didn't even bother trying to hide it. He nodded and said, “Yeah, Patrick. Since I went blind, nothing got through to me until you came along. You and your gorgeous, perfect voice.” He paused a moment, and felt Patrick shuffle next to him. "Um, speaking of which, there's uh, something I wanna ask you."

"Yeah, Pete?" Patrick said, something in his tone seeming to indicate excitement.

"Well, uh, like I told you earlier--and believe me, this has almost nothing to do with how attracted to you I am--Andy and I are thinking of starting a new band, and before you protest, I'm thinking I want it to be really different from what we did in Arma. Something less harsh, and more melodic. This is where you come in. You obviously have the gift, Patrick, and I want you to work with us. Will you?"

Patrick didn't say anything for a good, long moment. Pete drummed his fingers nervously on his knees while he waited for Patrick to respond.

Pete went on, "Well, like, if you wanna think about it, I--MMMPH!" His sentence was completely cut off by Patrick's kiss. This one was not gentle and seductive like before. It was  
bright, excited, and energetic.

When he pulled back, Patrick took Pete's hands and said, "Uh, duh, yes I totally want to work with you. And whatever else you want me to do with you."

Pete arched an eyebrow. "Really? Are you sure of what you're getting yourself into?"

Patrick's thumb was drawing little circles on the inside of Pete's wrist, making his pulse race and throb in his ears. Then, he was lifting Pete's hand to his face, and kissing his palm. "Hmmmm," he hummed happily. "I think I can handle it. But, more than that, I know I _want_ to."

Pete felt a goofy grin taking over his face as he said, "Awesome. Gimme your number and let me talk to Andy about having you guys meet."

Patrick's voice was suddenly low and right in Pete's ear, saying, "I was going to give you my number anyway, Pete."

Pete handed felt his jaw slacken as he his phone over with a trembling hand and waited while Patrick rested his forehead on Pete's shoulder and added himself to Pete's contacts. He managed to ask, "Oh, yeah?" He might have even gotten his voice to sound playful.

Patrick nodded against Pete. They laughed, and then Patrick said, “Yeah, definitely. I mean, Christ, you're fucking hot, Pete. And now that I know you're hot _and_ nice _and_ talented _and_ smart _and_ sensitive... well, now I want... _more_.” He put a husky emphasis on this word.

Pete nodded and said, “Well, I suppose I am kinda the walking definition of 'more'. As in, like, 'way more than you bargained for'. From the moment I let you in here, I knew there was no way you were leaving without being at least my bandmate. We click way too well for me to ever let you walk out of my life, Pattycakes.”

“And now?” Patrick asked again.

“Now," Pete sighed, "you're most likely stuck with a blind boyfriend, too.”

Patrick gave a big, put-upon sigh and pulled Pete into yet another perfect, passionate kiss, then hugged him close and said sarcastically, “Oh, heavens, not that.”

Pete hugged him back tightly, reveling in the feeling of a circuit closing, of completion. He was struck with the clear knowledge that wherever his life was headed, it was the right direction as long as he had this beautiful boy with the golden voice.


	7. Chapter 7

Pete awoke Monday morning to a text message from Patrick. He used the voice function on his phone to read it out loud.

_Be at your window in half an hour._

Pete leapt up and ran for the bathroom to shower and brush his teeth, crashing into the door frame on the way in. _It's ok, I just bonked my head, nothing I was using anyway_ , he thought, laughing giddily at the silly thought. _Oh my God, what the fuck is happening to me?_ He threw on clean clothes and put on a pot of coffee, then went and opened his window. Now that he knew when Patrick would be there, he could at least close it when it got chilly at night.

By the time he was settling on the floor with a mug of sugary caffeinated goodness between his hands, he heard the absent strumming of Patrick's guitar. He took a sip of coffee, then sighed dreamily and let his head rest back against the wall.

Patrick started playing in earnest, something simple, folksy even, and then he started singing, Pete wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry. It was “I'm Into Something Good” by Herman's Hermits. Easily one of the sappiest, dorkiest songs on the planet. Also one of the sweetest, and Pete knew it was just for him. Patrick of course modified the words a bit.

_Woke up this morning feelin' fine_   
_There's someone special on my mind_   
_Last night I met someone new in this neighborhood, whoa yeah_   
_Something tells me I'm into something good_   
_He's the kind of guy who's not too shy_   
_And I can tell I'm his kind of guy_   
_He stayed close to me like I hoped he would_   
_Something tells me I'm into something good_   
_We only talked for a hour or two_   
_But it's like I've known him my whole life through_   
_Can I be fallin' in love?_   
_He's everything I've been dreamin' of_   
_I walked him home and he held my hand_   
_I knew it couldn't be just a one-night stand_   
_So I asked to see him next week and he told me I could_   
_Something tells me I'm into something good_

Pete laughed quietly to himself as Patrick went on into a few other covers—Prince, Saves the Day, Bowie, Tom Waits. The usual suspects. But then, he launched into “Make It With You” by Bread:

_Hey, have you ever tried_   
_Really reaching out for the other side_   
_I may be climbing on rainbows_   
_But baby, here goes_   
_Dreams, they're for those who sleep_   
_Life is for us to keep_   
_And if you're wondering what this song is leading to_   
_I want to make it with you_   
_I really think that we could make it, yeah_   
_No, you don't know me well_   
_In every little thing only time will tell_   
_But you believe the things that I do_   
_And we'll see it through_   
_Life can be short or long_   
_Love can be right or wrong_   
_And if I chose the one I'd like to help me through_   
_I'd like to make it with you_   
_I really think that we could make it, yeah_   
_Baby, you know that dreams, they're for those who sleep_   
_Life is for us to keep_   
_And if I chose the one I'd like to help me through_   
_I'd like to make it with you_   
_I really think that we could make it, yeah_

Pete definitely felt his heart swelling in his chest as tears prickled the corners of his eyes. How did he get so lucky all of a sudden, to strike gold with this incredible guy who was apparently so talented, and hot (he was pretty sure anyway), and so... just, plain, old good?

Patrick spent the rest of his time outside doing more covers. Pete couldn't help noticing how jealously he guarded his original songs, seemingly for gigs only. Or for me, he thought with a sigh. He almost didn't notice that Patrick had begun “Love Will Tear Us Apart”. Almost.

He felt that familiar ripple through his body at the sound of Patrick's voice, low and smooth, plaintive but indignant, a whole host of emotions all wrapped up in that gorgeous young package. Pete's pulse was quickening and his breathing was getting heavier as he listened. He bit his lip and hugged his knees, rocking impatiently as he tried to sit still and not jerk off to the sound of his boyfriend's voice _(MY BOYFRIEND OMG)_. He bit into the side of his hand as he felt his cock start to throb a little, not unlike his dreams. As Patrick was singing the chorus through the last time, Pete loosed a small moan and he could swear he heard Patrick's voice crack just a bit, and then recover quickly. Even in the midst of being so fiercely turned on, the corner of his mouth quirked upward in a smile to think Patrick might have heard him and reacted to immediately to such a small sound from Pete.

He heard Patrick packing up, thanking people who were giving money or clapping, and then he heard, almost too low to be perceived, “Let me in, Pete.”

Pete stood up awkwardly and buzzed Patrick in. As soon as Patrick was inside the apartment and his guitar gently put aside, Pete felt that incredible mouth on his and whimpered helplessly as Patrick gathered Pete into his arms.

He pulled back and said softly, “I heard you, you know. Jerking off to me.”

Pete shook his head. “I didn't this time.”

There was a pause, and then Patrick said, “This time? You mean, you did before?”

Pete nodded and rasped, “Yes. I did, the first time I heard you sing Joy Division.”

“Really?” There was a cocky, desirous tone in Patrick's voice. Pete could practically see him raising one eyebrow and smirking seductively. He nodded quickly and swallowed to dampen his suddenly-very-dry throat. “So my voice turned you on... and what did you do?” Patrick asked playfully. He leaned in and kissed Pete's mouth again, and Pete moaned into it, chasing hungrily after Patrick when he pulled back. Patrick put a hand on his chest, guiding him backward to sit on the couch, then sat beside him.

Pete was uncomfortably hard, could feel his zipper digging painfully into his cock as it desperately tried to free itself. “Do you... do you really wanna know?”

There was a soft, sensual kiss on his jaw, and then that voice was in his ear, gravelly and full of desire. “Yeah, I wanna know, Pete, if you wanna tell me. And it kinda seems like you do. So, when you heard me singing, and you got hard, just like you are now, what did you do?” He dropped kisses down from Pete's ear to the pulse point by his collarbone.

Pete moaned, his breath hitching as he heard Patrick laugh against his neck. “I, ah...” He braced his hands on either side of him, giving Patrick better access to his body.

“Tell me step-by-step, Pete,” Patrick crooned.

“I unbuttoned my jeans,” Pete began, and just as the words left his mouth, his button was undone.

“Then I unzipped them.” He felt his fly was being opened. Once his pants were open, his cock sprang forth, straining against the cotton of his boxer-briefs. Just the whisper of the material against the head was enough to start him leaking, combined with Patrick's breath in his ear, and the knowledge it was Patrick's hands deftly working in his lap. “I uh, I reached down my pants, and I jerked myself off.”

Patrick reached under the waistband of Pete's underwear and grasped his cock firmly in his elegant hand. Pete arched up into it and moaned. Patrick began stroking slowly, tightening on the upstrokes and running his hand over the head, smearing Pete's precome. “Like this?”

Pete began thrusting into Patrick's fist, eyes squeezed shut and his head crunched forward, trying to clench himself up entirely toward the feeling. “Yes, oh God, Patrick, yeah. Just like that.” After a pause, he added, “It was... ah, it was the third verse.”

Then, Patrick was in his ear.

_Do you cry out in your sleep_   
_All my feelings exposed_   
_Get a taste in my mouth_   
_As desperation takes hold_   
_Is it something so good_   
_Just can't function no more_   
_And love, love will tear us..._

He didn't even get through the first line of the chorus before Pete was crying out against Patrick's shoulder, coming so hard he actually folded his knees up into it, curling his feet inside his Chucks.

When he finally caught his breath, Pete said into Patrick's ear, “Good God, that was fucking awesome. I hope I can return the favor half as well.”

Pete scrambled onto Patrick's lap and managed to open his jeans without too much difficulty. Patrick slouched back, allowing Pete easier access. Pete leaned down and kissed Patrick as he let his right hand run down the length of Patrick's body and wrap around the younger boy's straining dick, causing him to draw a sharp breath in. With his free hand, Pete traced his thumb along Patrick's hot, wet mouth, nearly getting hard again at the realization Patrick was biting his lower lip as his hips began to move in counterpoint to Pete's hand.

Pete had never really appreciated drummer timing until now.

Patrick writhed against him, clutching Pete's hip with one hand and tracing the length of Pete's torso with the other. “God, Pete, you're... oh fuck...” And with that, Patrick rucked up his t-shirt out of the way and came in long spurts over his soft belly. Pete felt Patrick's whole body shake as he loosed a beautiful, melodic sound. Pete took his own t-shirt off and used it to clean up himself and Patrick.

“God, I've wanted to do that since I first heard you last week,” Pete panted against Patrick's shoulder.

“I've wanted to do that since you guys played the Double Door last year,” Patrick confessed, his voice even breathier than Pete's.

Pete smiled, big and blinding, as he sat up. “Yeah?”

There was movement underneath him, more than just heavy breathing, slight but just noticeable. Pete grabbed Patrick's head on either side and said, “Dude, are you nodding?”

They laughed and Patrick said, “Yeah, sorry. Brain scrambled.” Pete kissed Patrick's sweet-talking mouth and then climbed off him so they could collect themselves.

“Thank you,” Pete said softly as they sat slumped side by side.

Pete felt Patrick shift and then his voice was closer. “For what?” he asked, sounding genuinely perplexed.

Pete lolled his head in Patrick's direction. “For giving me my life back. No, scratch that. For giving me a new and better one. For, like, _everything_ , 'Trick. Don't you play dumb with me.” He laughed weakly.

Patrick's hand came up to Pete's cheek and then Pete felt his mouth—that wonderful, talented mouth—claiming his, and Pete hummed happily against it.

“I think I'm the one who should be thanking you, Pete, for pretty much giving me my entire life's dream on a platter,” Patrick said when he pulled back.

“You're assuming we're gonna make it. That's taking a lot on faith. I think I like that about you, Stump.”

“Like you're not taking a ton on faith? I mean, you're letting me into your life and into your world when you hardly know anything about me. You're inviting me to work with you and _Andy Hurley_ and... I mean, you're really the one taking a chance on me, here. You...” Patrick paused, then got suddenly quiet. “You don't know what it means to know you... well, for lack of a better phrase, that you see something special in me.”

Pete sighed deeply, then dropped his head onto Patrick's shoulder and said, “I don't just see it. I _feel_ it, Patrick. And it's not just something special. It's _everything_ special. Trust me. We're gonna be unstoppable, you and I.”

He felt Patrick sigh peacefully against his ear, and then felt his arms holding him gently. It was just exactly what Pete needed. He let his eyes shut, just enjoying the moment.

 _Lucy was kinda right_ , he thought drowsily as he breathed in Patrick's scent and drifted off.

  
******

"Andy Hurley, I present to you Mr. Patrick Stump," Pete said with a dramatic flourish. He heard someone laughing voicelessly through their nose and wasn't sure which one of them it was. Maybe both.

Andy said, "Hey, good to meet you man." Pete heard the light slap of palms as they shook hands. "Pete says you're quite the prodigy."

"Well, that's, uh, very sweet of him to say, but, I think we both know he's kinda prone to hyperbole?" Patrick said with an upward inflection.

Pete laughed and said sarcastically, "Yes, I suppose Pete is prone to hyperbole, but in this case, Pete really means it. And no, it's not just because Patrick is Pete's amazing new boyfriend, either." He tried to throw an arm around Patrick, but ended up knocking his hat off, causing Patrick to make a few incomprehensible (but completely fucking adorable) sounds and go scrambling after it. "Seriously, Andy, wait until you hear him sing. He wrote a song out of one of my scribbles in, like, ten seconds. He's fucking incredible."

Andy laughed and put a hand on Pete's shoulder. He said quietly, "Dude, relax. You know I trust you. Plus, this kid is, like, perfect for you. He's totally pale and nerdy."

Pete clasped his hands over his heart and sighed dreamily as he heard Patrick strumming a few chords, warming up. "Uh, anything in particular I should play?" Patrick asked.

Pete shrugged and said, "Um, I don't know, you did a song by Saves The Day that was really good. Do that one."

"Sure you don't want Joy Division?" Patrick asked mischievously.

"Dude!" Pete squawked. "Like, come on! That would just be... inappropriate!" He splayed a hand on his chest in mock-shock. "And inconvenient!"

"I shouldn't ask, should I?" Andy said in a resigned tone.

"No, you really shouldn't," Pete said with a laugh.

Patrick chuckled, low and heavy, and then went with "Through Being Cool". Andy said nothing, but elbowed Pete several times. Pete asked him to sing "So Sick", and Patrick obliged, and then was equally accommodating when Pete asked him to stumble through what he'd made up Saturday night from Pete's words.

Andy said, "Dude, we gotta get Joe on board with us."

Pete turned to him, eyes wide. "Trohman? You mean he's available?"

"He will be for this," Andy assured him.

Pete launched himself at Andy and covered him in a giant hug, which Andy would never allow from anyone but Pete. Patrick laughed, loudly and freely, and Pete felt his chest tighten just a little more at the delicious sound, and at thought of what lay ahead for them.


	8. Chapter 8

“Are you ready, Pete?” Patrick asked as Pete nodded nervously.

"Say it, Pete. We went over this."

"Yes, Patrick, I'm ready."

“OK, hold your arms out to the sides.” Pete did as he was told, and felt the slip of canvas up one of his arms, and a familiar weight on his shoulder and against his waist. Patrick took his hands and guided them to the neck and body of the bass, which drew a sharp exhale and a small moan from Pete. For what felt like the millionth time since he'd met Patrick, he felt his eyes welling up as tingles took over his chest.

“Patrick,” he whispered. “I... I-I'm scared. I don't know if I can do this.” He felt small with the weight of the instrument against him, like it might crush him.

Patrick closed his hands over Pete's hands on the bass and kissed his mouth firmly. “Of course you can. You're Peter Fucking Wentz, and if anyone can play the bass blind, it's you. You, probably more than anyone else I've ever met, can do anything you set your mind to.”

Pete offered a weak laugh and said, “Well, it won't be any worse than before, that's for sure.”

“Hey, enough of that,” Patrick said, moving his hands to Pete's face and kissing him again. “You can do this, and you're going to do this, and I am going to be right there with you every single step of the way. Understood?” Pete nodded. “Please say it to me, Pete. I need you to talk to me while we do this.”

“Yes, Patrick. OK.”

“OK, good. Now, we'll start with stuff you know, but we're gonna slow the tempo down, OK?”

“Yeah, alright.”

“Good.”

They chose an old Arma song, slowed down considerably, with Patrick singing, tapping his foot, and guiding Pete's hands to the right frets and strings. Pete's face flushed with embarrassment and frustration that he had to have Patrick help him this way, but he kept going.

 _I'm going to do this,_ he thought. _I got up off my floor and left my apartment, I ate pizza and met Patrick, and I'm going to do this, too._

After about a dozen tries, Patrick took his hands away. Pete gasped, suddenly feeling lost. Patrick brushed his knuckles against one cheek, then kissed the other and said softly in his ear, “You can do it, Pete. You know this song backward and forward. Do it.”

Pete felt desire stir low in his body at Patrick's authoritative tone, and he said, “Yes, Patrick,” feeling the gravel come through in his voice.

“Good.” Patrick's voice was a little lower, too. He started tapping his foot again, the same slow tempo, and hummed the guitar riff. Pete hesitated, shifting on his feet for a moment, then thought fuck it and began. He was clumsy at first, and was off by a fret for the first bar. Patrick kept tapping and humming, stopping only to say, excruciatingly patiently, “Start again.”

Pete sighed heavily and said in an irritated tone, “Yes, Patrick.” He wanted so much to get this right, for himself, sure, but also to have Patrick be pleased with him. The heat in his body was increasing every time Patrick seemed pleased. It didn't take a genius to figure out what was going on here, but Pete had thought he would wait a bit before discussing anything like this with his new and very young boyfriend. He didn't want to scare him off. Still, this whole thing with Patrick telling him what to do, guiding him, teaching him, praising him, well, ... it was _hot_.

The tapping and humming stopped. He felt Patrick's hands come down on his shoulders as Patrick said just a little more forcefully in his ear, “Excuse me?” Was Patrick playing with him too, now? Had he caught on? Pete wasn't sure, but either way, he was not going to have Patrick genuinely pissed at him. Neither the boyfriend part of him nor the sub part if him was ready for that.

Still, that mild stir of desire now suddenly exploded in his chest and belly. Without thinking, Pete whimpered, “I'm sorry, sir.”

Patrick hummed appreciatively as he nuzzled Pete's ear. “Hmmm, someone likes being bossed around, don't they?” Oh, God, Patrick _knew_ , and he was into it. This day seriously could not get any better.

“Yes,” Pete whispered between ragged breaths. “Yes, sir.”

“Then get through this song without a mistake, and we'll see about a reward, then, shall we?”

“Patrick, I will get this right if it takes me all fucking night.” His voice broke on the last word as he felt himself gripping the neck of the bass with his left hand so hard the strings were digging into this fingertips. His cock was aching against the back of the bass, getting just enough friction from the instrument to be torturous.

“That's good, Pete. That's what I want to hear. Now, do it again.”

“Yes, sir.”  
He went back and did it again, and it was better this time, but then he strummed the wrong string about half way through.

“Start again,” Patrick said in that same even tone.

“Yes, sir.”

And he did, and better this time. He made it almost the whole way through before he messed up.

“Start again.”

“Yes, sir.”

After a few more tries, he made it all the way through without a mistake. He felt like he might cry, he was so pleased with himself.

“That was great, Pete. I'm so proud of you,” Patrick said genuinely, and Pete felt his heart swell at the praise. His poor cock was also swelling too, impossibly aroused and throbbing in his pants.

“You really accomplished something amazing just now. You do understand that, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Pete said, though it was not much more than a moan, really.

“Do you think you could do it again?” Patrick teased.

Pete wanted so badly to fall to his knees and fucking beg Patrick to let him come, whether he did it himself or Patrick did it. Then, Pete felt one fingertip slip under the hem of his shirt in the back, where it met his jeans, and trace just one small circle on the small of his back, slipping just slightly under the waist of his jeans. Then it was gone.

Patrick leaned in his ear and commanded, “Tell me, Pete. Can you do it one more time?”

“Yes, sir. Anything you want. Anything...” His voice was cracking, and he was practically shaking with need. But he could do it. He would do it.

“Good.” Pete whimpered again at the word, and put his hands back in position on the bass.

Patrick tapped a beat, just a hair faster this time, and hummed the guitar chords to cue Pete. As soon as Pete began to play, Patrick began singing the words, and Pete felt Patrick's hands curl possessively around his hips from behind him. His heart was racing, Patrick's voice was in his ear, and suddenly his fingers were working from memory, muscle memory he never thought he'd regain. He was playing the song, really playing it, faster than Patrick was going, but Patrick sped up to match him effortlessly.

_God, it's like we're..._

He finished the song, and once again didn't make a mistake.

“I knew you could do it, Pete. You're so incredible,” Patrick said on a sigh, then dragged his bottom lip up the shell of Pete's ear.

Pete cried out softly, then managed to say, “Thank you, sir.”

Patrick hummed happily and said, “I did say something about a reward, didn't I? What would you like, Pete? Hmm?”

“Oh, God, anything, sir. Anything you want. Please...”

“Alright, baby. Lift your arms for me, hmm?” Pete complied, and the bass was lifted off of him and lain aside. “Take your shirt off.” Pete hurriedly did as he was told and tossed it away, then knelt down, folded his hands behind his back, and dropped his head. Patrick laughed affectionately as he knelt down in front of Pete. He ran a hand down the side of Pete's neck and down his chest, while Pete stayed as still as possible and tried to keep quiet. His breathing was so short and fast, though, and his heart pounding so fiercely, that Patrick knew he was getting a reaction. Still, he said, “Pete, I want you to react to me. Don't bite it back, not ever, unless I tell you otherwise. Understand?”

“Oh God, yes. Yes, sir.” Pete caught himself hurriedly. He felt Patrick's mouth at his pulse point, and he tilted his head to give him access, loosing a little moan.

“So beautiful,” Patrick whispered, and Pete shivered. “I think I'd like to have you in my mouth. Would you like that?”

“Yes, please, sir. I want it so bad,” Pete whined, his hips moving forward on their own, seeking some friction, anything. “But, um, what would you like me to do for you, sir?”

“Pete, you've already done everything I asked you to do for tonight. This is your reward. OK?”

Pete nodded, then said, “Yes, sir.”

“Good,” Patrick said finally, then stood Pete up and guided him to the bedroom and stretched him out on the bed. Pete was all helpless moans and whimpers with every move Patrick made taking his pants and underwear off. “Look at you,” he crooned, running his hands all over Pete's body, except in the one spot seeking attention the most. His cock lay heavy and dark against his belly, thrumming and leaking precome. “You're so fucking gorgeous.”

Pete held his headboard while Patrick touched him, feeling like every nerve ending in his body was burning and aching with ugly, messy need. “Sir,” he managed. “Patrick, please...” the he caught himself and pleaded, “Sorry, I'm sorry, sir...”

A hand came down over his mouth, gentle but decisive. “No apologies, Pete. We're playing. You can call me 'sir' or 'Patrick' or 'Master' or 'baby' or whatever you like. I don't really care, as long as you're enjoying every--” Patrick licked Pete's nipple, and Pete made a hiccuping sound as he tried to keep from thrusting against Patrick's thigh, “--single--” he trailed his tongue up the center of Pete's neck, drawing another broken noise out of him, “--second.” He punctuated this with a warm, soft, loving kiss on Pete's mouth, and Pete mewled as he reciprocated. “And are you?”

“Yes. Oh, fuck, yes, Patrick, I...” The rest of his sentence was lost as Patrick slid down his body, still fully clothed, and licked a stripe up from Pete's balls to the leaking head of his cock.

“Can you hang on for me for a little bit? Can you let me enjoy this for a little while, Pete?” Pete could do that. He'd do anything Patrick asked of him right now. Anything at all. He nodded.

Patrick shook Pete's leg with one hand. “Pete?”

“Yes,” he choked out. “Yes, I can wait.”

“Such a good boy,” Patrick cooed as he went down on Pete in earnest. Patrick couldn't take him all the way in, but he used his hand around the base to follow his mouth in long, even strokes. Pete's mind was hazing over as a litany of wails and curses came falling out of his mouth at the feel of Patrick's incredible mouth on him, the smooth, wet slide of those perfect lips over him. He wished he could see, look at his beautiful boy with his mouth stretched around him, see him stop every so often and trail his fingers feather-light over his thighs, then back up to his cock as he took him down again. His perception of the world was falling away, narrowing itself down so there was nothing but Patrick, Patrick with his gorgeous mouth, his fucking voice making little sounds of pleasure as he sucked and licked at Pete so wonderfully, so perfectly, so skilled that he was taking Pete higher, higher, every little step higher but always holding him back just at the precipice and then paused to tease him in some other way, then, would bring him back up, up, up.

Patrick stopped again, and Pete heard an obscenely slick sound, like Patrick was still sucking on something. “Pete,” he said, his voice hoarse, wrecked from having Pete in his mouth, against his soft throat... oh, Pete ached for him to do it again, finish him off... he was so fucking close... “Pete, when I put my mouth on you again,” he paused as he rubbed a finger at Pete's hole, causing him to thrust up at nothing and cry out at the sensation, “you can come, OK?” He gently, slowly let one finger slip inside of Pete, up to the second knuckle, then just as gingerly slid another one in. “OK?” he asked more firmly.

Pete was grinding down onto Patrick's fingers now, simultaneously hoping and not hoping Patrick would reach far enough up to hit his spot. He wanted it so badly, but he wanted to hold on for Patrick. To be _good_. “Yes, Patrick,” he groaned, his words slurred. “Yes, oh fuck, pleasepleaseplease, fuck...”

Patrick lapped the head and said, “You're fucking amazing right now, all spread out and begging for me. Are you still enjoying it? Because I know I am.”

Pete whined and writhed on the mattress, unable to form words anymore. He tried to say something that even remotely sounded like a "yes", but was pretty sure he failed miserably.

“Good,” Patrick growled in that low voice, and then took Pete back in his mouth while his fingers worked upward, hitting that electric hot place inside Pete and making him arch up off the bed as he screamed, gripping the headboard as he came so hard it was laced with an edge of pain, just the perfect amount, from his hips straight on downward to his toes. Patrick released him, and he fell back onto the mattress with a boneless thump.

Pete wasn't sure how much time he passed in the floating quiet before falling asleep, but when he slowly, slowly awoke, he became aware of the fact that he was clean and dry, and there was a blanket over him.

_Patrick. Where is Patrick?_

He blinked a couple of times and tried to take stock of what sensations he could before speaking. He spread his arms out and breathed a sigh of relief to hit a jeans-clad hip. Patrick was right there, sitting beside him.

“Well, there you are,” he said tenderly, and Pete rolled toward that beautiful sound, snuggling up to Patrick and putting his head on Patrick's thigh. He hummed lazily at the comforting touch of Patrick's hand in his hair, at the relaxed feeling of complete bliss. “How are you feeling, baby?”

“Hmmm, perfect,” Pete said as he draped an arm across Patrick's legs. “How long was I out?”

There was a pause, then Patrick said, “Um, about an hour.”

Pete stiffened as a realization hit him. “But wha... Wha-what about you?” He felt the distress coming through in his voice, and Patrick pressed a little harder as he rubbed Pete's scalp.

“Hey, Pete, don't you worry about me. You were so hot, so gorgeous for me, and I just...” Patrick trailed off, then breathed in sharply and let it all out. “I will be using that mental footage for a long time, believe you me.”

“But... Patrick, you did all that for me, and then you just... took care of yourself, too?” Pete murmured, flushing with shame. “Patrick, I'm sorry, I should have taken care of you first.”

Patrick moved his hand to the back of Pete's neck, and held on gently. It was a commanding move, but not punishing or cruel. “Hey, shhhhh, I said not to worry, baby. I wanted to suck you off. I've wanted to for a while. It was even better than I imagined it would be, and you were perfect for me. You were everything I wanted. Do you understand? You were _perfect_.”

Pete felt immediately reassured at the touch and Patrick's words, and relaxed against him with a sigh. _This day really cannot possibly get any better._

“By the way, I ordered pizza while you were out,” Patrick said softly. “It'll be here any minute. I hope you're hungry.”

_I stand corrected._


	9. Chapter 9

It was a Thursday morning like any other. Patrick was in class, and Pete was writing some new lyrics for the two of them to work on before band rehearsal that night. Pete wanted to be ready to give him as much new material as possible.

The new songs they had already were good. Really good. Patrick had the magic touch, or something. They had enough for a short set, which was all they needed for now, so they wouldn't work on new-new stuff now. Still, Pete felt the need to keep going, keep creating, keep pushing and make sure that his new band would still want him. That he was useful.

Saturday night was their first gig (that wasn't a house party or someone's apartment) in this new incarnation. Nothing huge, just a basement club, but Pete was nervous. Like, palms sweating, shaking, wondering how the hell he would get through the show without throwing up nervous. It would be his first time on stage since the accident, since leaving Arma, and about the only thing that made him feel like possibly not vomiting was the fact that Patrick would be there.

_Patrick._

Four months had passed since they'd met. Four wonderful, incredible months since that first kiss, since Pete's heart and mind had been opened by that beautiful boy with the golden voice. Pete felt like he had new eyes, in a sense, ones that saw more than he ever had before he'd lost his physical sight.

Patrick had given him everything, given him his life back, and asked for nothing in return. He was patient and gentle, sweet and solid, he was real and there for him in ways no one else ever had been, the way no one else ever really could be. There were times, not unlike this very morning, where Pete thought about how blessed he was even to know Patrick, let alone be his partner and bandmate, and he felt himself welling up with gratitude. And something else, something he had yet to name, but that he knew was getting stronger and harder to deny every day.

Apparently, Pete had lost himself in thought, because as he sat on his couch, laptop temporarily forgotten, a familiar sound had begun wafting up from outside. He opened the window and heard an acoustic guitar playing something he didn't know, but then he heard that same, familiar, unbelievably sexy voice:

_I don't get many things right the first time_   
_In fact, I am told that a lot_   
_Now I know all the wrong turns, the stumbles and falls_   
_Brought me here_   
_And where was I before the day_   
_That I first saw your lovely face?_   
_Now I see it everyday_   
_And I know_   
_That I am_   
_I am_   
_I am_   
_The luckiest_   
_What if I'd been born fifty years before you_   
_In a house on a street where you lived?_   
_Maybe I'd be outside as you passed on your bike_   
_Would I know?_   
_And in a white sea of eyes_   
_I see one pair that I recognize_   
_And I know_   
_That I am_   
_I am_   
_I am_   
_The luckiest_   
_I love you more than I have ever found a way to say to you_   
_Next door there's an old man who lived to his nineties_   
_And one day passed away in his sleep_   
_And his wife; she stayed for a couple of days_   
_And passed away_   
_I'm sorry, I know that's a strange way to tell you that I know we belong_   
_That I know_   
_That I am_   
_I am_   
_I am_   
_The luckiest_

As Patrick let the last chords ring out, Pete put his hands to his face as hot tears began spilling down his face. He heard passersby clapping and whooping at them and laughed a little.

“I'm coming up, Pete,” he called. Pete nodded and shut the window.

As soon as Patrick let himself in, Pete threw himself at him, causing a jumble of jangles, twangs, and thumps on the guitar still strapped to his back. He was outright crying like a child on his shoulder.

“I thought you liked my singing,” Patrick joked as he wrapped his arms around Pete.

“Patrick, that was beautiful ,” Pete choked out. “That was the most amazing thing anyone's ever done for me.”

Patrick held Pete against him, rubbing his back and shoulders. “Even more amazing than when I taught you to play the bass line to 'Fly By Night'?”

“Don't joke,” Pete pleaded. “Don't do that, please?”

Patrick nodded as Pete pulled back and put a hand to Patrick's face before kissing him fiercely. He cradled the back of Pete's head and hummed low against his mouth, drawing a whimper from the older man.

When they drew apart again, Patrick adjusted his hat with one hand and said, “Well, it's been four months, and uh, I don't know why but it just jumped out at me because when we met, it had been four months since the accident, and uh... I just uh... it seemed special to me. So, like, Happy Kinda-Anniversary-Thing, I guess?”

Pete let his hands slide down Patrick's arms to his hands, and grabbed onto them. He shook his head, turned his face downward, and said, “I still can't believe all this is happening. I mean, I just... yeah, I definitely have a tendency to jump into things headlong, and... like, I probably shouldn't be so quick to trust people, but I had a feeling about you from the beginning, 'Trick, and I just... I knew I could trust you and I knew we had a real connection and that we could be great together. I just, I'm not used to those instincts turning out to be totally right, at least not with stuff like this. I'm, like, really fucked up in a lot of ways, and I don't have a great track record with, like,  
relationships, and... I just... I'm glad I was right about you. Thank you for, you know, um...”

“What, not being a total asshole, or something?” Patrick asked, genuinely dumbfounded. “Pete, you're the most incredible man I've ever met. The things you've done, the things you've overcome... The fact that you even can trust me says more about you than it does about me. I mean, you could have just given up and moved home, left this whole world behind and no one probably would have blamed you too much. You could have shut me out, never talked to me or let me in. But you did. You came out of this really huge, life-changing thing without losing who you are, Pete. You're still _that_ Pete Wentz, the person you seem to think is just a persona. You're still the beautiful, wild, wonderfully open and brave person you always were. And I'm the luckiest man in the world, because I get to be here with you for all of it.”

Pete shook his head. “I think I'm the luckiest man in the world, because... I get to be in love with someone like you.”

Pete heard Patrick draw a sharp breath, and let it out, slow and shuddering. “Oh, thank God. Pete, I'm so in love with you.” Patrick pulled him in for a passionate kiss, slow and warm and perfect.

Pete fisted his hands in the back of Patrick's shirt and moaned as he pressed harder, deeper, as though he thought he could claim Patrick entirely, body and soul, using just his mouth on Patrick's.

“Fuck,” Pete said, feeling desire spreading out, hot and sweet, tingling from his chest through his whole body. Not just arousal, not just the need for physical contact. This was stronger, bigger. _More._ “Patrick, I want you. I want—”

Pete was silenced by two fingers over his lips. Patrick whispered, “Me too, Pete. I want you so much. But not now.” Pete whined against the fingers on his mouth, and Patrick went on, “I want to do something special, Pete. I want us to have an entire night to ourselves, nowhere else to be, nothing else to do but explore each other and be together. The thing is... I've um, I've never done, well, _that_ before, and I want plenty of time to make it good for you, Pete. I mean, and for me, too, but... I don't want us just to throw our clothes off and fuck. I want to, like, _make love_ with you, Pete. Maybe that sounds sappy and old-fashioned, but...” He trailed off.

There was a moment where Pete just stood with his mouth hanging open and his boyfriend's arms around him. “Wait, you've never...” Patrick shrugged and sighed. “Ever?” He rested his forehead against Pete's and shook his head. “And you want... me ... you want me to...” Patrick nodded.

“I've never felt this way about anyone before. I never wanted to before now,” he explained. “Before you .”

Pete closed his eyes and let it sink in. He felt like a world-class slut all of a sudden. By the time he'd been Patrick's age, he'd stuck his dick in more crazy than he cared to think about. And here was this perfect, sweet, virginal boy who wanted Pete, _Pete Wentz_ of all people, to... to be his goddamned _first_. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly.

“Wow, Patrick, that's... that's fucking huge. I don't...”

Those fingers were back on his mouth. “Shush. Whatever self-deprecating bullshit is about to follow those two words, fucking stow it,” Patrick ordered. “Don't you do that to yourself. I am well aware you probably don't think you deserve it, or that you're worth it, or some such bullshit. I'm also aware our pasts have been very different, and I don't fucking care. It doesn't matter, and I'm not going to let you try and make it matter, either. You matter to me, right now, as you are. Everything else you did, everything else you went through, just brought you here, to me, and I won't let you act like it's all on some sort of perverse tally sheet. I love you, Pete Wentz, and I want everything that comes with that.”

“Patrick, they definitely broke the mold when they made you,” Pete said dreamily, cupping that smooth, perfect face in his hands. “I don't know what I did to deserve you, but I promise not to question it if you just keep that sweet-talking voice right in my ear forever.”

Patrick pressed his lips to Pete's, gently capturing Pete's bottom lip between his own and letting it slide back out slowly. Pete let out a sharp breath at the sensation as Patrick whispered, “I promise.”

******

Pete rocked on the balls of his feet nervously as they waited to go onstage.

“We don't have a name,” he complained to the others. “We should have picked a name.”

Joe shook his head, not thinking about the fact that Pete couldn't see the gesture. “Nah,” he said. “If they hate us, it's better we don't have a real name yet so they don't remember us. If this goes well, then we can talk about a name. Deal?” Pete nodded.

A firm and familiar pair of hands came down on his shoulders. “Relax, Pete,” Patrick said in that gentle, soothing way. “Everything's going to be fine. I will make sure you're in your spot, and just in case, I'm going to be five paces to your right. OK?”

“Yes, Patrick,” Pete sighed, leaning his forehead on his boyfriend's shoulder and letting that silky voice reassure him a little. Patrick rubbed the back of his neck and Pete made a low, happy noise.

Patrick leaned down to Pete's ear and whispered, “I love you.”

Pete felt his breath hitch at the words. He lifted his head and touched his cheek to Patrick's so he could whisper back, “I love you.”

The first band came off their set, clapping Joe, Pete, Andy, and Patrick on the shoulder as they passed. “Good luck out there, guys,” the singer said amiably.

“Thanks, man,” Andy said.

As they made their way to the stage (such as it was), Patrick made sure he had a hand on Pete's arm. He guided Pete to his spot, then counted five paces and moved his microphone to the spot where he'd landed. When Joe and Andy were ready, Patrick leaned over and tapped Pete's wrist to cue him.

“Hey what's up?” Pete said nervously into the microphone.

There were a few whoops and claps, and one person shouted “Welcome back, Pete!”

Pete smiled—a real, genuine smile, and said, “Hey, thanks! Uh, anyway, we don't have a name yet, so if we suck, you don't have a name to spread around. Well, except mine, maybe.” He laughed a little bit, and a few people in the audience did too. “Anyway, we're gonna play a few songs for you, and uh, I hope they turn out OK.” He took half a step back to indicate he was done talking, and then Andy clacked his sticks together: _1-2-3-4_ , and then they were off.

The set was only fifteen minutes, but Pete was still silently praying that his fingers would work and obey his commands. During the second song, he started to feel a little lost, almost missing a note, but recovering quickly. He felt his heart in his throat, and it was pounding out _PatrickPatrickPatrick_. He waited for Joe's solo, then cautiously counted five paces to his right. There was a light elbow against his own, and before he could stop himself, Pete had his forehead on Patrick's shoulder while they played. He just counted out one bar, then felt reoriented enough to go back to his spot.

_One, two, three, four, five._

When the song was over, Pete slowly, gently put his hands up to find his microphone, which was, happily, right in front of him, where it was supposed to be. “Hey, guys,” he said, and the crowd responded with some clapping and cheers. “Uh, thanks. So, you guys probably know who I am, and that I used to be in a band called Arma Angelus.” There was a mixture of cheers and a couple of boos. “Anyway, about eight months ago, for anyone who doesn't know, I had an accident at a show that left me completely blind. So, uh, this is my first time playing with a band, you know, on like, a real stage and stuff, since then, and um, I really appreciate you guys coming out. I'm sure I'll be back to yelling and screaming soon enough once I'm used to this.” He chuckled a little at that, and a couple of people laughed and clapped, and one whistled. “Thanks, dudes, really. I mean it. Anyway, enough mushy stuff. Let's have some fun.”

With that, they went into the next song.

When their set was over, everyone was clapping and cheering, and Pete was smiling widely. He couldn't have been happier with how it went. “Joe?” he said.

“Yeah?” came the mic'd response.

“We still need a name.”

“What, you don't like 'Boner Party'?” Joe said.

“No, we are not being 'Boner Party'!” Andy cried from behind the drum kit.

“'FALLOUT BOY'!” someone in the audience called.

“What?” Patrick said. “Like, Milhouse from 'The Simpsons'?”

“YEAH! 'FALLOUT BOY'!” came the reply.

Pete said, “Uh, we'll have to change the spelling so Matt Groening doesn't sic his lawyers on us.”

Patrick laughed and said, “Yeah, OK. We're 'Fall Out Boy', then I guess” He sounded each syllable out to indicate the new spacing. The crowd cheered in response.

Pete sighed. “'Fall Out Boy' it is, then.”

When they got off stage, they were all smiles, hi-fives, and hugs. Someone pressed a can of something cold into Pete's hand and he held it up. “Guys? To Fall Out Boy.”

The other three tapped their cans against his and repeated, “To Fall Out Boy,” and Pete took a sip.

It was Coke. Good. He didn't feel like drinking, anyway. He was too buzzed on his own, his body spinning with adrenaline.

A hand hooked in his elbow and pulled him close, and then Patrick's voice was in his ear. “Can we go back to your place tonight? I, uh, I want to be alone with you.” There was a fine tremor to it, but his tone was sweet, almost bashful. Nothing like the commanding presence he'd shown to Pete so many times before.

Pete nodded. “Yeah, me too. I want—”

There was a gentle thwap on the back of Pete's head and then Andy said, “Alright, lovebirds, go on! Away with you! We'll pack up here.”

He and Joe started snickering as Pete and Patrick got their gear and left, blushing and giggling.

******

Pete closed the door to his apartment and stood there, still holding his bass (and his breath just a little), waiting.

Waiting for Patrick to decide, to make a move, do _something_.

It seemed like the moment stretched into eternity before the guitar case was taken from his hand, and his bag was slipped off his shoulder. He heard the soft, rustling and thudding sounds of gear being placed on the floor, and then Patrick was taking his hands.

He kissed Pete, gently, chastely, then said, softly, “Um, can we take a shower, Pete?” He seemed so timid, and Pete was sure Patrick was looking at his feet as he asked.

Pete slid a hand up Patrick's chest and neck to find his chin, and sure enough, he was looking down. He tilted Patrick's chin back up, then leaned in and kissed him softly. “Of course, baby. Whatever you want. Come on.”

He and Patrick led each other to the bathroom, and Pete turned on the water. While it warmed up, he kissed Patrick again, humming against his mouth as Patrick slid his hands down Pete's sides, then grabbed the hem of Pete's shirt and pulled it up. Pete backed up a bit and lifted his hands, letting Patrick get it the rest of the way over his head. He reached for Patrick's shirt and only managed to lift it partway before he realized Patrick was crossing his arms over himself.

“Patrick? Baby?” Pete said, letting the unspoken question hang in the air. He bit his lip as he felt Patrick shifting his weight between his hands. When there was no verbal reply, only the audible click of Patrick's throat as he swallowed, Pete put one hand on his cheek and said, “Please don't be afraid. I love you, Patrick.” There was a moment's hesitation, and then he felt Patrick's arms move so Pete could lift his shirt up and off of him. Pete ran his hands over Patrick's chest and belly, feeling the impossibly soft skin. He had one little patch of coarse hair in the center of his chest, and his nipples were hard and raised. When Pete's thumbs found them, Patrick drew in a breath and moaned, placing his hands on Pete's shoulders while Pete explored. His belly wasn't hard and flat like Pete's; it was just a little bit round, and it gave when Pete pressed his fingers on  
it. He let his fingers trail around to Patrick's back, and ran them lightly up his spine. Patrick gasped and arched his back into the touch, bowing his head down a little as Pete fanned his fingers out over Patrick's shoulder blades and let them dance up to his neck. He gathered Patrick's face in his hands and brought him back upright, kissing him again. “God, you feel so good,” Pete murmured against Patrick's mouth. “I wish I could see you, see how beautiful you are.” Patrick's breath hitched at Pete's words.

Pete backed up and undid his jeans, sliding them down his legs. He heard Patrick doing the same thing and smiled, breathing a sigh of relief and contentment that he and this boy he loved so much were finally doing this, finally sharing this with each other. He held out his hand, and Patrick took it. “Come on,” Pete whispered, and they got in, under the warm, falling spray. “Let me.”

Pete got them both wet and soaped himself, then Patrick, letting his hands roam freely over Patrick's trembling body. Patrick clutched at Pete's shoulders to steady himself while Pete worked him over, gently, carefully. He was still soft, because he was so nervous, but when Pete knelt down and tenderly ran a soap-slick hand over him, reaching underneath to cup his balls and rub gentle circles on the sensitive skin behind them, Patrick dug his fingers in, loosing little staccato whimpers as his hips began to move slightly, and he hardened a little under Pete's hands. Pete rested his forehead against the spot where Patrick's thigh met his groin and said, “God, you sound... so amazing, Patrick. You're so gorgeous.” He reached around and splayed his hands on the small of Patrick’s back and just held him like that for a moment, on his knees in the shower in front of his  
beautiful boy with the golden voice.

Patrick's hands disappeared from his shoulders just then. Pete heard the clicks of a bottle opening and shutting, and then felt those talented fingers massaging shampoo into his hair. He stilled himself and pressed his head into the touch, the incredible feeling of Patrick caring for him this way. He groaned low in his throat at the feel of it. They rinsed it out, and then Pete stood back up and found the bottle, pouring a little into his own hand. He rubbed both hands together, then reached for Patrick's head. Pete felt him flinch at the first touch, but then relax into it as Pete worked on him. Pete massaged his scalp and threaded his fingers through Patrick’s hair, smiling at the feel of Patrick trusting him with something he felt so sensitive about. He let Pete rinse him off and then stood out of the water, wiping his eyes.

“Pete?” Patrick said quietly when Pete turned the shower off.

“Hmm?” Pete said, pulling the curtain back and stepping out onto the tile floor. He grabbed two towels and handed one to Patrick, then started drying himself off.

“Um, I’m kinda glad sometimes you can’t see me.” Pete stopped dead in his tracks, listening.

Patrick wasn’t drying off, from the sound Pete wasn’t hearing. He turned and reached back into the tub, towel slung over his shoulder, and found Patrick was just standing there, clutching the towel Pete had handed to him, dripping wet. Pete dropped his own towel and took Patrick’s, wrapping it around his shoulders and pulling it up to start drying his head.

“What?” Pete asked, working his way down Patrick’s body with the towel. “Why would you even say that?”

“Pete, you’re the one who’s beautiful. You’re… you’re dark and sleek and exotic, and you have these deep, honey-colored eyes, and… God, your body is just… so perfect, and… and I’m…” Patrick waved an arm.

Pete put a hand over Patrick’s mouth, missing a little at first and then sliding his fingers over, drawing a little laugh out of both of them. “Shush. Whatever self-deprecating bullshit is about to follow those two words, fucking stow it. If I don’t get to revel in my insecurities, then neither do you. I have not one single doubt that if I could see you with my eyes, I would think you’re every bit as beautiful as I do now, if not more. I know because I saw you in my dreams before we met, and you were gorgeous. I knew you were light and kindness and sweetness where I was dark and broken. You are everything I need in my life, in my heart, Patrick. And I’m going to spend as long as it takes proving it to you, starting tonight.”

He leaned in and kissed Patrick, slow and soft, and Patrick grabbed the back of Pete’s head and moaned against Pete’s lips, deepening it and pulling Pete’s body against his.

“God, I love you, Pete,” he said when he pulled back, his voice low and gravelly.

Pete ran his hands over Patrick’s face, feather-light, and said, “I love you, Patrick.” He stepped back a bit and held out his hand. “Come on, come to bed with me.” Patrick took the outstretched hand and followed his boyfriend to the bedroom.

Pete gently guided Patrick to lie down and get himself comfortable against the pillows. “Oh, baby, I am gonna make this so good for you,” he said with just a little bit of a whine in his voice. He got on all fours over Patrick and traced one finger over Patrick’s temple and down his cheek to his lips. “Tell me you want me? Say you want this with me?”

Patrick shuddered, then put his hands on either side of Pete’s neck, threading his fingers in Pete’s wet, springy hair. “I want you so much, Pete. I want you to make love to me.”

Pete breathed out hard, a sigh of something like relief, something like disbelief, something like desire, and everything like _Patrick_. He squeezed his eyes shut and smiled crookedly as he found his way down to meet Patrick’s mouth with his own, then dropped soft kisses along Patrick’s jaw and down his neck. Patrick clutched Pete’s shoulders and breathed in great heaves, his body undulating, searching for contact. When Pete made his way to Patrick’s nipple, he circled the tip of his tongue around it and then gently sucked it up between his teeth, bringing his hand up to tease the other one between his fingers. Patrick brought his leg up around Pete’s hip and tried to use it to pull Pete down against him where he was suddenly throbbing and rock-hard. Patrick was whining shamelessly now as Pete made his way down Patrick’s soft, gorgeous belly, trailing his chin down from the head of Patrick’s cock all the way to the base, running his hands down his thighs and caressing the backs of his knees.

“Um, Patrick?” he asked, his voice sheepish.

“Yeah, Pete?” Patrick sounded harsh, breathless.

“Reach into the drawer of the nightstand and hand me what’s in there?”

“If it’s a Bible, I’m going to be very upset,” Patrick joked.

Pete was guffawing before he could help himself, hugging Patrick’s knee. Soon, Patrick was laughing, too, and it was exactly what they both needed right then. Normally, Pete would be annoyed at Patrick for breaking the mood, but right then, it felt right. Patrick pulled the lube and condoms from the drawer, then handed them to Pete, his hand shaking.

Pete took them and kissed that soft knee, taking in the unique scent of freshly washed Patrick, a little sweaty with nerves and arousal. _His_ Patrick.

He slicked up one finger, then nuzzled Patrick’s balls with his nose, drawing a pretty little moan from him. Pete pressed his fingertip at Patrick’s hole, just probing and making slow, gentle circles. He felt Patrick’s thighs clenching against his shoulders. Pete darted his tongue out and lapped lightly at the spot just above where his hand was, making Patrick's hips thrust upward. From there, he trailed his tongue up from the base of his cock all the way to the head and traced a circle around it. While he did this, he slyly slipped one finger inside Patrick.

“How's that, baby?” Pete said, relishing the way Patrick's breath was heaving and stuttering.

“It's so good, Pete, so good,” Patrick panted, his voice broken and raw.

“Do you think you can take another one?”

“Yeah, yeah, Pete, do it.”

“Oh, fuck, Patrick,” Pete groaned, slipping a second finger in.

Patrick arched his back and cried out, “Oh, shit, oh God, Pete...” He thrust up again, and then ground down a little on Pete’s fingers as Pete slid them in further and found that spot inside Patrick, the one that made him writhe as he sobbed helplessly, crying out Pete’s name and begging him, “Please, baby, please do it, please Pete, please I need you…”

“God... God, Patrick, yes.” Pete lifted himself back up on his knees and felt around for the condom with his dry hand. When he found it, to tore it free from the foil and unrolled it onto himself, then slicked himself up with lube. He crawled up and positioned himself over Patrick, kissing his chin, his cheeks, his mouth. “I’m gonna go really slow, baby. This is gonna hurt at first, so tell me if it’s too much, and I promise I’ll stop, OK?”

Patrick nodded, then said out loud, “Yeah, Pete. I’m ready.” He was, oh he so was, but he still shivered at the cold, blunt press of the head of Pete’s cock against his hole. Pete slid just the head in, then stopped short as Patrick gasped and clenched down around him. Pete leaned down to kiss Patrick and felt his teeth gripping his lower lip.

“Try to relax, love,” Pete soothed in Patrick's ear. “You're alright, I've got you, baby.”

Patrick took a few deep breaths, and Pete felt him calm down a little, felt his body give to accommodate this new fullness. “OK, Pete,” Patrick said, “Go on.”

Pete pushed in a little further, then backed up and pushed in a little further than before, practically holding his breath trying not to come before he was even all the way inside. Patrick was digging his fingers into Pete's shoulders, whispering his name over and over again as he finally, gingerly slid himself all the way in. He stilled again, and rested his forehead against Patrick's, which was already slick with sweat. “Here,” he whispered, and gathered Patrick's legs, pulling them up right  
under his arms. “This might help. Is that a bit better?”

Patrick gave a little breathy moan and loosened his grip a bit. Pete's mouth found his eyes, which were squeezed shut and wet with tears. He kissed each one, then gently kissed his mouth and whispered, “You OK?”

“God, yeah,” Patrick sighed, and Pete sighed along with him. “You feel... Pete, please...”

Slowly, tenderly, Pete began to move against Patrick's body, listening for every reaction, every hitching breath and sigh, every whimper. As soon as he had his bearings and a steady rhythm, he propped himself on his elbows and let his fingers rest on either side of Patrick's head, caressing his face. Pete found Patrick's mouth and claimed it fervently, moaning as every slick, hot slide of his cock inside his love, _his Patrick_ , sent electric shocks through him.

Patrick broke the kiss and pulled Pete closer against his shoulder, holding him as if for dear life, as he began matching Pete's movements and sending a series of sweet, frenzied cries into the air above them. Pete had never heard anything so gorgeous, so perfect as his beautiful boy crying out in pleasure, knowing he was the one taking him, making him shake apart. Nothing in his life had ever felt this good. Not his first line, not his first gig, not even his first fuck. It felt like there was nothing else before this night, this moment, like he was breathing for the first time. There was nothing else in the world besides him and Patrick.

He hooked one arm under Patrick's neck as he buried his face further into the crook of his shoulder, breathing in his scent and tasting his sweat.

“Patrick, oh God, baby, oh, God, Patrick, my Patrick...” Pete's voice was absolutely wrecked.

“Pete, please, I... aahhh, oh God, I-I need...” he managed.

Pete reached down between them and began stroking Patrick's cock, sending jolts through both their bodies as Patrick clamped down. He hooked his ankles together behind Pete, pressing him onward, in, farther, further, more...

And then Patrick was coming, spilling messily between them as his voice hit a breathtaking crescendo and he bit down on Pete's shoulder, the pain mixing with the friction on Pete's cock and sending him straight over the edge behind Patrick, wailing uncontrollably as his body shook with the force of it.

As they came down, panting and moaning against each other, Pete managed to lift his head enough to kiss Patrick on the mouth. He pulled out and took the condom off, knotting it and tossing it in what he hoped was the general vicinity of the trash as he heard Patrick chuckle in a kind of affectionately grossed-out way. Patrick cleaned them up, then got under the covers, hissing through his teeth a little as he tried to make himself comfortable. Pete joined him and pressed himself against Patrick's side, head on Patrick's shoulder and hand over his heart. Patrick twined his fingers with Pete's and breathed a contented sigh.

“Good?” Pete asked, a thread of apprehension in his voice.

Patrick kissed the top of Pete's head and said, “Fucking incredible. You?”

“Patrick, this was by far the best night of my life. I've never felt this good, ever.” He punctuated this with a weak kiss to Patrick's chest.

Patrick hugged him closer and said, “Never? Really?”

Pete shook his head as much as he could and said, “Mm-mm. I've never... well, I've, like, thought I was in love before, you know, but I feel like, now I can tell none of that was really, like, real. Not like this. Not where I was, like, actually safe and could trust the person. Before, I think I just needed _someone_ , but now I just need _you_. I love you, 'Trick. Like, honest and for true.”

Patrick chuckled softly. “I love you too, Pete, honest and for true.”

They drifted off to sleep together, safe in each other's arms, with life firmly in front of them.


End file.
